Today I thought about burning bibles and how my house is surrounded by cobwebs and how do I explain that to people.
It burns my veins when I think of the god that lets children die and creates maelstroms inside people so they’re left begging for change in the streets and all those prayers are like pinpricks on my forefinger because if I was created in his image, then why do I curl my fists when I look in the mirror
It’s not easy being cut-cloth and vacancy motels in foreign cities I will never return to because I know their owner
I know the freckles in your back like constellations in my head
I've heard your voice when I was on the bathroom floor sinking, sinking
There’s no anchor in this ship and the tossed waves are like your tousled hair
and maybe the sternum in your chest is the Bermuda triangle
but I could have sworn I held your hand, I know this for a fact
because my pulse danced with yours those days
but now it’s these days and I can’t get a grip
and I bend my knees but the bruises are stubborn
I keep opening doors but I don’t know what I’m looking for
I want to call, for help, to my mother, to my father whose clothes cling to him like death and I want you to know that this isn't about you
When I was a little girl, I would go to church and hope that someday my knuckles would get kissed and not murdered
I wanted everything my parents didn't get
I used to think it was because god was too busy with other people's families and that's why their lawns were always greener than ours
I wanted for you to exist so badly, I forgot that I did too.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
I'm the letter that you never sent, I'm the notebook you bought but never wrote in, I'm the aisle that's still wrapped up in plastic;
I'm dry paint brushes, month old lights, dusty shelves, heavy dictionaries, untouched pillows, coffee gone cold, window left open during rain
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
we own teacups
of porcelain that
make up a couple
her always filled with coffee
mine with tea
this was what became
our morning routine
to spend time until the cups are emptied
we talk about irrelevant things
matters and thoughts that do not
have acquaintance with consequence
how it'd be possible to raise goldfishes in ***** bottle
we kept for remembrance or how many cookies could
the porcelain beauty we held so dearly possibly contain
sometimes we waste a good morning
watching wisps of steam rise and vanish
like the way people seem to get out of sight after bidding goodbyes
after a certain distance they'd be nothing more than a sihlouette
and after time slowly they get out of mind
one day you'd realize
that no longer can you conjure their sihlouettes in memory nor
can you remember the way they walked away
were they off in a hurry or their footsteps
heavy as the heart the carried that very winter morning
when snow didnt fall like predicted by the weatherman the night before
(and that was when you realised the weight of goodbyes)
these are the thoughts that occupy
my mind when I wash our cups
and notice (everytime) stain rings around the innerside of the cups
three quarters full of coffee and half a cup of tea
we'd store the cups after
hers always facing left
they would sit silently never a word of complain
as such nice mannered tableware, cups are.
they'd wait silently for every next morning
to be filled, coffee and tea.
I always thought of her as a hot chocolate person
until one morning I saw sunlight caught in the dark lazy curls of her hair
until how the dark coloured liquid resembled the colour in her eyes
and came to a silent agreement with myself
how she suited coffee on lazy mornings the way
coffee suited her when she tipped her cup ever so slightly
and sipped like she'd found peace in mind
now I smile when she asks why I stopped telling her teacups are meant for tea
(that there are no absolutes in the things we do)
there are mornings she would wake to find me
already awake and silently staring at the rain pelted windows
legs crossed at the foot of the bed and singing
singing softly in russian
I'd end
always at Дорогая
and asks if she
wants coffee.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
strong like the conventional cup of coffee
that he allowed himself to become one with on the most frigid mornings
when she wasn't prevalent
but little did he know
simultaneously she brewed up her own romantics
because the cold brought nothing but the familiarity of the scent of coffee she had learnt from his breath
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
Its okay. You broke me. It's okay. Things break because they need to be fixed. It's okay. Maybe you're confused. Maybe you love her. It's okay. It's not like I'll love you forever, right? Things break because they need to be fixed.
I think it might be okay. I'm uncertain. I'm broken, it still hurts. It'll be okay. Sometimes things don't get fixed the way they used to be. It'll be okay. You lie. You love her. I think it'll take a little time for me to be okay. Sometimes things don't get fixed the way they used to be.
I don't know if it'll be okay. I'm lost. I'm still broken. I don't know if it'll be okay. It hurts to see you with her. I don't know if it'll be okay. You love her. You break me again. You love her. I don't know if I'll be okay. It hurts.
I don't think it'll be okay. I've been distracting myself with addictions like razors that need to be sharper and cigarettes that need to last longer. You still love her. You act like I'm not there. I don't think it'll be okay. I'm distracting myself with addictions that are becoming my life.
It won't be okay. I know; I have scars under my heart and my lungs are rotten. It'll take me years to get over this addiction. You love her. It's going to be years before I stop loving you. I buy another pack. Maybe our timing was wrong.
I'm not okay. I know; I woke up with a bottle of pills in my stomach, but I'm not dead. You kiss her at the end of the day at school. In front of everyone. I leave. Panic attacks in the school bus are in routine. I still love you. It hurts. It hurts. I don't think you'll stop loving her until I'm dead. God, I'm horrible.
It's been six months since I last saw you. I drank for the first time a week ago. I know you'd have a heart attack. If you were still here. You tell me you still love her but you couldn't do long distance because you were leaving for college and she was still in school. I'm not happy. I think it's stupid. If you loved someone that much, what's a thing like distance? I'm in a different continent than you are. I still love you. I look for you in crowds and I look for you in people. I wonder if we'd ever run into each other in the future and if you'd wanna try again. Probably not. I buy more packs.
It's been three years. Three years since I last saw you. I use nicotine patches and there are month old scars around my thighs. I smile and sometimes I can laugh without faking it. I'm in another country. I don't look for you in crowds anymore. I don't know if I'll be okay.
I don't see you in my best friend and that's something big. She can be like you, and I think I might like her. But not because of the similarities between you two. I don't know if I'm still in love you. I still feel empty and I still relapse from time to time. I guess when you love someone for so long you forget who you are without those feelings. I think it'll be okay.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
I miss how numb we would get. I miss sticking my tongue to catch each peculiar shaped snowflake. I miss making snowmen with you, forgetting a scarf as the last touch. I miss having snowball fights, and how we'd make snow angels everywhere because we still believed that angels watched over us, because we still believed. I miss the cold; I miss my nose being red and numb, my hair flying everywhere, smiling so wide. I miss wearing boots, I miss hot chocolate and marshmallows. I miss fog in the morning. I miss how happy I was in the cold.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
I keep telling myself I'm okay and I'm fine and nothing matters and that the smile on my face is real but I should not be brought to tears when you ask how I'm feeling
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
I want to paint you, I want to paint with you. I want to be the one that wipes that little smudge of blue paint off your nose. I want to be the one telling you how much better I am with water paint. I want to be the one that you can't get mad at because I spilt the paint. I want to be the one standing in the painting with you; the one with that sunset.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC